


That Competitive Edge

by OriginalCeenote



Series: Rat Race [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes to the Rescue (eventually), M/M, Tumblr otpprompt, Workplace Rivalry, no powers, sick!Steve, stucky au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr otpprompt, Imagine your OTP applying for the same job, both with similar sets of skills or skills that could cancel each other out (example: A is brilliant at math, but terrible with public speaking, whereas B is the exact opposite, etc…) They both have their interview and find that the company decided to hire them both. They end up in a fierce rivalry, trying to outwork the other, when person A falls ill from overwork and stress. Person B feels terrible, and calls in sick to look after them and apologize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Competitive Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Heck, why not? Stucky lit up my brain like a highway flare as soon as I saw this prompt. I don't have tapestry syndrome, or anything... I apologize in advance if this reads like a bad made-for-TV movie.

"So. Tell me why I should hire you, instead of any of the other schmucks sitting out there in the lobby." Bucky smiled winningly and began to open his mouth, but the dark, late forty-something man in the Armani suit sitting across the table conference table from him held up his hand to halt his response. "Not that I'm calling you a schmuck. Not to your face. Not yet. But I expect anyone who my HR department took the time to review and slide across my desk to dazzle me. Pepper," he asked the striking strawberry blonde to his right, "at last count, how many CVs did HR review for this position?"

"Ballpark guesstimate?"

"Uh-uh. I don't like 'guesstimates.' He made impatient quotey fingers. "Give me a real number. Don't mince words."

"I would never mince for you," she agreed blandly. "Three hundred and thirty-three." Tony - Bucky was given permission to call him that when he was called into the conference room, palms sweating buckets - raised his brows, then threw up his hands. He faced Bucky again.

"There you have it. Three hundred and thirty-three. And _counting_ if things don't pan out here in the next ten minutes."

"You have another interview at twelve-fifteen," Pepper reminded him as she slid his smartphone toward him, lighting up the screen.

"Oh. Right. Eight minutes," he clarified. Bucky straightened up. "No pressure. So. Dazzle me."

"I was fortunate enough to complete an internship with Stark Industries back in December. It was an amazing experience."

"Yes, it was." Tony gave him a tidy smile, preening. "We're an amazing company. Fortune 500. Maybe you saw my Forbes cover." He hesitated, remembering this wasn't about him. "Sorry, though... James, is it?"

"Technically. On my birth certificate, but I go by Bucky."

"Bucky, Bucky..." Tony's eyes went blank, drifting for a moment. "You'd think I'd remember that name..." He stared at him, narrowing his eyes.

"Graduated with honors from BU," his right hand pointed out.

"Degrees are a dime a dozen. A couple of letters on a piece of paper," he said dismissively.

"Um... I used to make the ten o'clock coffee runs?" Bucky offered. "Venti caramel frappaccino, extra whip, extra espresso shot?" Tony suddenly beamed, pointing at him.

"Yes... yes! That was _you._ Got it! That was gonna drive me nuts all day, wondering where I knew you from. Bucky! Plucky Bucky. The Buckmeister."

"Bucky's fine," Miss Fix-It told Tony in clipped tones, smile tight. Bucky's lips twitched.

"Remembering your CEO's drink order. Goes a lot further than a BA," Pepper said. Bucky's pulse skipped the moment he realized she might not be joking.

"Your _prospective_ CEO," Tony reminded them both. The other executives around the table shuffled papers and checked their watches and phones uncomfortably as they waited for Tony to run out of tangents and shiny distractions. "Remember, I want to be dazzled."

"My work on the Illuminati engine prototype speaks for itself. I installed the operating system and helped Dr. Banner work out the bugs-"

"Bugs? No... surely you're mistaken. There are no 'bugs,'" and out came the quotey fingers again, "in MY engine design."

"There aren't _now._ " Bucky kept his voice level, but inside, he was _bursting_.

"He's right, by the way. Hi." Bruce waved from the doorway, dressed casually in a lab coat and khakis and sipping from a lidded venti cup that smelled suspiciously herbal.

"Aren't you supposed to be down in the lab?" Tony accused.

"I was just passing by. Here are the spec sheets, by the way - "

"Pepper can have them."

"He hates being handed things," Pepper reminded Bruce dryly, eyes twinkling. Bruce's shrugging nod begged the question _Yeah, well, what can you do?_ before he relinquished them to her in that awkward lean that indicated that he didn't want to stay in the room any longer than necessary.

"Anyway, combustion variables wait for no man." He pointed to Bucky. "They might wait for this guy, though." He nodded at him. "You're sharp, kid."

"Thanks, Bruce." Pepper beckoned to him, giving him his cue to go. Bruce backed out of the room.

"Razor sharp!" he called around the edge of the doorway as he backed out of it. Pepper chuckled. Tony threw his hand up in the air, waving the spec sheets at Bucky.

"You found bugs in my design."

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

"Tell me what you plan to do to fix them."

*

"So. Brooklyn. Dazzle me." Steve smiled awkwardly at the use of the nickname, much like he had when Tony pointed out that he didn't spend much time there, himself.

"My pitch for the new Illuminati campaign went into production. The newest ad spot?" Steve reminded him.

"That spot's been blowing up on YouTube," mentioned a medium-height, dirty blond in a light gray suit as he tilted his laptop in Tony's direction. "You know your stuff," he told Steve easily.

"I have more ideas," Steve added eagerly. "I have _so_ many ideas for that new clean-burning engine and how we could put it out there-"

"It's still in Development," Tony said, cutting him off.

"It's not too early to put a taste of it out there for the public and make them hungry for it," Steve pointed out. Tony's brows rose.

"Talk to me."

Steve ran on autopilot and the second half of a Monster that he drank on the train there. Under the table, his left heel jittered and bounced as he spoke. "The engine's lines are gorgeous. That camera-ready art really got my wheels turning-"

"Wheels. Turning. It's almost a pun," Tony deadpanned, giving Pepper a tiny smirk. Clint made shooting-gun fingers at Steve and winked, muttering "good one" under his breath.

"We could make a die-cut brochure, I've got a mock-up of what it looks like," Steve insisted, whipping out his tablet. He turned off the screensaver, hands moving rapidly, drawing on the screen with a stylus. He expanded the screen and turned it toward Tony.

"You've done your homework," Pepper remarked, impressed.

"That's sexy," Tony told him.

"I had a dummy printed yesterday, too." He whipped it out of his black leather messenger bag that cost him a grip, leaving him on a ramen budget for a month.

“I’ve got some images in mind for the user manuals, too.”

“No one ever reads the manuals,” Tony argued.

“I do,” Pepper corrected him.

“ _She_ does,” Tony amended. “Right. So. What else have you got?”

Steve dazzled him for another twenty minutes. Tony was champing at the bit, noticeably beginning to toy with his cufflinks and fidget in the rolling leather chair, wanting to end that round of interviews. Steve smiled nervously, then forced his foot to stop jittering.

"So. Um. Any other questions for me?"

"Just a few. Favorite color. Last good movie you saw. How much do you like huddling in cramped cubicles for hours on end?” Steve’s face went blank for a moment.

“Er, blue. Edge of Tomorrow. More than breathing.”

Tony gave him a curt nod. Pepper grinned down at her day planner. Tony Stark had three hundred and thirty-one people to disappoint.

*  
Bucky was at the gym when he got the call, nearly losing his footing on the treadmill when his Pandora stream was interrupted by the flash of “Stark Industries” across his tiny screen. He stumbled and jumped up onto the side rails of the machine and hit pause, trying to master his gasps as he hit “accept call.”

“This is Bucky.”

“Buckmeister. This is Tony Stark.” A shit-eating grin spread across Bucky’s face. “Pepper’s busy at her desk sending out thanks-but-no-thanks emails, or otherwise she’d be making the call, but I just wanted to know if you’re doing anything on Monday.”

Laundry. Hanging out at the used book store with Clint. Avoiding the collection calls from his student loan officer. But Bucky told him none of these things. “My day’s pretty open.”

“Not anymore. I’m gonna let Pepper give you the ‘professional’ call,” and Bucky could picture Tony making quotey fingers again, and he was _bursting_ with excitement, “and make you the formal offer, but I’m giving you the job.” Bucky’s knees buckled. All he could do was gasp and slap the treadmill’s control console in glee. His face was frozen in a happy rictus, drawing stares from his jogging and powerwalking neighbors. He fist-pumped the air and mouthed “Yesssssssssssss!” Tony continued. “Pep will give you the whole spiel,” and he pronounced it “sshhhh-PEEL,” of course, “with the whole rundown of benefits, 401k, time off – but that part’s a lie. We don’t do ‘time off.’ Plan to show up on Monday prepared to work your ass off.”

“You won’t regret this! Thank you, sir! Thank you SO much!”

“You’re welcome. Don’t have a heart attack.” He ended the call without any further salutation. Bucky readjusted his earbuds and hit play on his Maroon 5 station again and resumed his run at a light jog. His smile refused to slip.

He messaged Clint a half an hour later as he keyed open his locker. _I’m in. I got it. _ He set down his phone and rubbed his hair dry with his nubby workout towel, and he saw a reply flash back a moment later.

_Told you._ Bucky snickered at his next reply. _You buying?_ Bucky picked up the phone and dialed him instead.

“Hell, no! Not until after Monday, man!”

“That’s when you start?” Clint sounded pleased.

“Yep. Gotta take my suit back to the dry cleaners.” Bucky knew it had to reek of his sweat after that interview.

“Go out and buy a new one,” Clint told him smugly. “You work for Stark now. Can’t walk around in rags, Barnes.”

“I’ve got a crap-ton of bills that need some attention first. I can hit the mall next month. And there’s nothing wrong with my suit,” Bucky informed him.

“Looked like you were wearing your dad’s hand-me-downs,” Clint huffed. “Don’t worry. My impeccable style might rub off on you now that you’re working in my unit.”

“Says the man in the purple tie at my interview,” Bucky accused. “Keep that style to yourself.”

“You wound me,” Clint chuckled. “Listen to the man talk shit after he just got the job!”

“Get used to it.” And Clint _was_ used to it after two years of living with Bucky in the dorms. The two of them separated after Clint met Natasha two months before they graduated. Clint and the redhead recently admitted that they were no longer “just havin’ fun” and were legitimately besotted with each other. Clint was almost sickening to be around now, but Nat was a riot. They both sent him a barrage of photos of the two of them mugging and making lewd gestures and faces. Bucky was happy for them both, but he wasn’t envious. Being one half of someone else was exhausting.

“M’gonna get changed. I’m at the gym.”

“In the middle of the day? GET A JOB, Barnes!” Clint teased.

“Fucker.”

“See ya Monday.”

“Can’t wait.” Bucky was still grinning smugly. 

“Ooh, hold on a sec. Just to let you know, they hired the other guy, too.”

“What other guy?” Bucky’s brows drew together.

“The technical writer. He’s gonna be in your unit, too, kinda the liaison between Marketing and R&A. He’s sharp and honestly, he looks like he’s twelve.”

“He made it in past the front lobby?”

“Don’t make fun. The kid _is_ sharp. Make sure you play nice.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Monday!” Clint barked. Bucky could picture him making little shooty fingers at him over the phone.

“Monday!” Bucky echoed.

“Later, bro.” They rang off, and Bucky hustled himself off to the showers, putting a trip to the dry cleaners at the top of his list.

*

Steve was halfway through a bite of shredded wheat and vanilla almond milk when his smartphone vibrated and played Fall Out Boy’s “Thanks for the Memories.” He coughed slightly as a few bits slid down the wrong pipe, fumbling in his pocket for the phone. “Stark Industries” lit up the small screen, and he nearly choked again. “Shit,” he rasped as he tried to swallow down the rest of the bite, then hastily swiped across the screen to take the call. “This is Steve?”

“You sound unsure of that. It’s Tony Stark. Just calling to make your year. You with me, there, Mr. Rogers?”

“Yup. Right here.” Steve’s voice sounded a little raspy.

“Mr. Rogers… man, that’ll never get old. _Any_ ways, it looks like we’re giving you the job, so…”

“You’re giving me the job.” 

“Uh-huh.” Tony sounded smug.

“You. Are giving _me_. The job.”

“Yup.” Tony gave him a knowing chuckle.

“I think I’m going to have a heart attack. Wow. Just… wow. _Wow_.”

“Calm it down a notch, now. No need to call an ambulance when it’s such a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” Tony reminded him. “Pepper will call you with the relevant details. Y’know, benefits and trivial stuff like that.” Steve felt his hands grow clammy with excitement and his eyes prick.

“Benefits! Oh, my God! That’s… you won’t be sorry, Mr. Stark! This is incredible… stellar news. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much. SO much. This is just… wow. WOW.”

“That sounds like rambling.”

“It is. Sorry. Wow.” Steve was practically _giggling_. “This made my day.”

“I should probably tell you when you start?” Tony suggested cheerfully.

“Sure! So… when is that?” Steve toyed with his cereal, mashing a now-soggy biscuit with his spoon.

“Bright and early, Monday morning. That should give you time to update your Facebook and call your mom.” Steve felt a slight pang, but he shook it off.

“Sure. Well. Thanks again. I’ll look out for that call from Pepper, then.”

“She’ll be your go-to for any question you have about workplace policy, compliance, non-compete agreements, insurance, and what to bring to the monthly birthday potlucks. No fish.”

“Excuse me?”

“No fish. Never bring fish. Stinks up the whole break room and the stench just travels…” Tony made a shuddering noise. 

“No fish. I will never, EVER bring fish,” Steve promised. “I solemnly swear.”

“Can’t wait to see you on Monday!” Tony sang cheerfully. “Welcome to the Stark family! Well, we’re all _kinda_ a family. Some of them are gonna remind you of your weird alcoholic uncles, but hey! You should fit in fine!”

“Have a great weekend, sir.”

“Bye.” 

Steve slid his phone across the table and just took a second to stare ahead and compose himself.

Moments later, he was up out of his seat, bowl of dinner time cereal forgotten as he began to dance (badly) around his living room, fist-pumping and yelping “Yes, yes, YESsssssssssss!” with no shame.

*

Pepper gave them each the rundown an hour later once the last of the rejection emails had been sent out. She was working late, staring longingly at the take-out box of shrimp lo mein on the edge of her desk as she read from the benefits screen on her laptop.

“Four-oh-one-kay contributions are vested after a year. We match fifty percent upon date of hire, and match one hundred percent after three-hundred-sixty-five days. You can contribute a max of ten percent of your pretax earnings…”

Bucky rubbed his hands gleefully, mouthing the word “Yes!” silently as she spoke.

*

“Health insurance coverage begins the first day of the month following date of hire. I know that means a three-week wait, but it’s the way the contract is written –“

“Oh. No. Don’t apologize, it’s fine,” Steve stammered. He stared at the kitchen counter at his storage tray of medicine bottles and boxes, most of which had prescription expiration dates that were frighteningly soon. The band of tension around his chest loosened when she quoted him the impossibly low monthly premiums and generous coverage, for himself or a domestic partner of either gender.

*

“We have employee discounts on six different health clubs in the city, if you don’t like the one onsite.”

“Gotta keep fit,” Bucky beamed into the phone.

*

“You can take up to four weeks of paid vacation a year, and you have a separate bank for sick leave. You accrue eight hours of sick leave per month-“

“Just… eight?” Steve felt a frisson of panic, but he mastered it.

“We have FMLA guidelines in place if you ever need an extended stay due to medical disability or illness of a family member, too,” she coached him carefully. “Still with me?” she asked after several seconds of silence.

“Uh-huh.”

*

“You’ll have your own parking spot in the garage. We’ll give you a parking permit that you’ll keep in your windshield.”

“This just keeps getting better and better!”

*

“We pay for public transport. Just bring your mileage and bus and train fare receipts to Accounting and Payroll every month.”

“Wow.” _Now_ Steve was impressed.

*

“I think that covers it. Start at Payroll to get your time cards on Monday and have your pictures taken for your badge and parking permit. Bring your ID and social. We’ll enroll you for benefits and fingerprint you, and then you’ll report to Nick. He’ll be your direct supervisor,” Pepper informed them on each call.

Bucky was on the phone minutes later, changing into skinny jeans, shaving, gelling his hair and arranging to meet at his favorite noisy dive. Steve was on his media accounts, posting grinning selfies on each with the caption _I can afford the NAME BRAND mac and cheese now. Starting at SI on Monday _. He spent the rest of the night scribbling with his Wacom tablet and thinking of new ways to emphasize the design of Stark’s engines in the new ad copy.

*

_Monday morning:_

Bucky rolled up out of bed and gave himself a thorough scratch, shutting off his phone alarm. He brushed his teeth while heating up a Hot Pocket in the microwave, eyes still bleary as he reviewed the contents of his closet.

Steve watched an episode of the Louie show at low volume while he ironed his shirt and pants. His cereal, when he ate it, was nearly dry; it was time to get more milk.

Bucky turned on the cheesy informercial workout guy and did his calisthenic routine as he continued to wake up, then did fifty pushups on his own.

Steve went to his medicine tray and lined up all of his bottles, unscrewing caps and shaking out doses, laying each one out on the counter. One for hypertension, one for anemia, one for sinuses, one for anxiety, one for migraine… He chased them all down with a bottle of Fiji water and finished off his cereal, eyes widening when he checked his microwave clock’s display. He scrambled off to the bathroom to shower.

Bucky sang off-key Journey tunes while he crushed Axe body wash into his hair and rubbed foamy streaks of it all over his taut skin. He made a shampoo Mohawk and sang into an air-mike.

Steve shaved while he was in the shower, hitting his hair with Head and Shoulders, then quickly soaping face, neck, pits, chest, belly, crotch, then ass, wishing he had time to linger under the warm spray. He dried himself off in the tub to avoid soaking the bath mat.

Bucky trailed puddles in his wake as he rushed into his room to get dressed. He sprayed a generous amount of Old Spice on his pits, then blasted some down his chest for good measure. He hopped into a pair of graying boxer briefs, making a mental note that it was time to buy more underwear once he got paid. He put on his lucky socks and the watch that his mom gave him for his graduation. 

Steve stood in his bedroom mirror, looking at a weird mole on the side of his neck. “I need to get this looked at,” he murmured under his breath. He pulled on tightie-whities and an undershirt that was white once, but that had a bluish tinge from accidentally washing it with a pair of new dark jeans. He rolled on a brief slick of unscented, hypoallergenic deodorant that he picked up at the health food store, remembering briefly how his mother used to swear by simple baking soda, since antiperspirants had aluminum in them. It hurt so much, not having Sarah to share his good news with when he got the call from Tony. 

Bucky tied his ice-blue tie that his sister said brought out his eyes in a tidy Windsor knot and worked his hair up into that little wave in the front.

Steve side-parted his hair and smoothed his bangs, ruefully noticing that he needed it cut. He eased into his snuff brown blazer and smoothed it, then remembered to tuck a handkerchief in the pocket.

Bucky grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, an apple, and another Hot Pocket, cramming them into his cold sack. He began the manic search for his keys and phone.

Steve rummaged in the freezer for his last packet of Trader Joe’s brown rice, a bag of salad mix and a Tupperware tub of sliced fruit he packed the night before. He tossed all of it into one of his shopping totes and grabbed his keys and phone from the dish he kept by the front door for that purpose.

Hello, Monday morning.

*

“Can I get… do you have almond milk?”

“Sorry, sir. We’re out. Would you like soy instead?”

“No. No, it’s full of hormones. It’s even worse than dairy milk,” Steve informed the bored looking brunette in the green apron at the Starbuck’s counter. “I’ll just get a regular coffee, then, with two sugars.”

“So no creamer, then?”

“Not unless you have any that’s organic and non-dairy, without being soy-based.” That eliminated most of the options on the menu, but she didn’t tell him as much.

“That’ll be two-fifty. Name?” She held the Sharpie poised against the white to-go cup.

“Steve’s fine,” he told her.

“Steven Fine?” she asked.

“No. Just Steve. That’s it.”

“It’ll be up in a sec.” He missed her rolling her eyes as she turned and barked his order to the barista down the counter. Steve rummaged in his pocket for his wallet, juggling his tote to loop the straps around his wrist, but his messenger bag strap slid down his arm from his narrow shoulder, making him drop his lunch.

“Shit… hold on. Sorry,” he offered meekly, feeling his cheeks flush. He finally freed his wallet from his pocket and worked on prying his ATM card out of its snug sleeve.

“Hurry it up, up there!” he heard an impatient tenor call from a couple of places back in line. 

“Give me a sec!” Steve called back as he freed the debit and handed it over. The clerk smirked at him with red-glossed lips as she rang him up.

“Any pastries today, sir?”

“Are any of them gluten-free?”

“None of the good ones,” she admitted guiltily. 

“We’ll skip it this time,” he told her as he crammed the debit back into his wallet, and then shoved it back into his pocket, only for his messenger strap to slide down again.

“Any day now, Grandpa!” It was the same asshole from the back of the line, Mr. Double Venti Macchiato with an attitude. Steve wanted to strangle him with his flamboyant ice blue tie.

“Look, pal, I’m not taking shit from you while you’re wearing that tie. You look like an escapee from Forever 21.” The women in line behind him tittered, and a man in a knitted rasta cap strumming a guitar made a silent “oooooooooh!” with his mouth, eyes widening as he ignored his chai in favor of watching the spectacle. Steve peered around the shoulders of the people directly behind him, meeting the man’s pissed glance.

“Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? Is this Take Your Son to Work day for you, punk? You’re definitely decked out in your dad’s suit.” The baristas behind the counter looked up from their espresso machines, raising their brows at each other. This was getting good…

“One Americano, two sugars,” Darc announced. “For ‘Just Steve,’” she added dryly. To Steve’s amusement, the cup actually read “Just Steve.” Brilliant. She handed his cup to him.

“The rest of us aren’t getting any younger waiting for you.” That guy had a mouth. Steve took his receipt from the clerk and smiled with his eyes. Steve walked past him, and he heard a brusque, “Wow. Never mind. I’m sorry. No wonder it took you so long, trying to read the menu out of those things.” Steve leveled him with a thousand-yard stare through his bifocals.

“I might be half blind, pal, but I _still_ wouldn’t have gone with that tie.” He raised his cup in salute. “Have a nice day.” Dimly, Steve was annoyed that the grating tone came from such a pretty face. He was a little taller than medium height, filled out his suit well, ugly tie notwithstanding, and had his hair teased up in a little come-fuck-me wave in the front. A pair of indecently large, pale blue eyes bore into his as he huffed.

“Thought you’d _like_ my tie. It’s _gluten-free_.” Steve had just left the store, but he paused, chuckling and shaking his head. It was finally Bucky’s turn at the counter after the girls in front of them finished ordering their skinny lattes and tiny bags of apple chips. “Fucking hippy,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

“I know, right?” Darcy murmured. She smirked up at him. “I _like_ the tie. Nice look. Makes your eyes pop.” Bucky beamed.

“Venti macchiato, extra whip, darlin’.”

“Name?”

“Bucky.” She raised her brows as before scribbling on his twenty-ounce cup. 

“That’s different.”

“My parents’ names were George and Winifred. It could have been a whole helluva lot worse.”

“Old school,” she agreed. “Is it short for anything?”

“Buchanan. James Buchanan.”

“Don’t like Jim?” He shook his head vigorously.

“Nope. ‘Jim’ leads to ‘Jimmy.’ I grew up in the generation that watched Beavis and Butthead. That was asking for punishment.” She nodded knowingly.

“I gotcha. Bucky, it is.” And if she drew a little heart on his cup, too, well… you couldn’t judge.

*

Steve had a head start to the red line train; wisely, he saved his receipt when he filled his fare card. Bucky used his last twenty until payday, deciding a week of the metro was more cost-effective than a tank of gas that would last three days in his guzzling Mustang. Bucky initially took the receipt, but crumpled it into his pocket, only for it to fly out with the back breeze from the rush of people coming up behind him in the turnstiles.

They both climbed onto the train from opposite ends of the same car, anxious and brimming with excitement, scrambling to find seats but settling for poles and straps, sardined between commuters and vagrants during the morning rush. Steve juggled his belongings, treating himself to a whiff of his inhaler from the run down the steps from the street. He turned down his left hearing aid to blunt the racket of the rails, while Bucky turned up his ear buds to better hear his black metal Pandora station. Steve gave a tall, buxom woman a look of sincerest apology when the jolt forward sent him jerking forward face-first into her chest. Steve maintained his death grip on the pole and mainlined his coffee for the next three stops.

Bucky was still sipping his way through the caramel infused whip trapped in the spout of his lid when their stop arrived, savoring it as the commuters rushed out like ants from a hill, surging for the escalators and turnstiles. Steve was starving for a breath of fresh air, and he made a sour face at the reek of engines and piss, trying not to crush his pelvis – or more vital parts – on his way back through the turnstile. Both men rushed up to the street, offering excuse me’s and brief nudges as they navigated the crowd. Bucky was a button-puncher, almost mutely chanting “C’mon, _c’mon_ ” as he leaned on the stoplight call after it had already been pushed once by the over-highlighted woman beside him. “That won’t make it change any faster,” she remarked.

“Won’t hurt anything,” he argued back.

“My tax dollars pay for that light,” she informed him crisply. Bucky waited for her to turn away before silently imitating her, making faces, stopping and smiling benignly when she glanced back at him just as the light changed. When she was several paces ahead of him on the crosswalk, he stuck out his tongue.

“Face is gonna freeze like that, pal.” Bucky did a double-take. 

It was the slowpoke blond that stole Stephen Hawking’s glasses and refused to give them back, doing his best to outpace him on the way to the sidewalk with his short – but decidedly slender, limber – legs.

“You following me?”

“You’re leaving a trail of sunshine and rainbows with every step, but no. I’m going to work.”

“Figured as much, but mind me asking where?”

“As long as _you’re_ not stalking _me_ , then no. I don’t. I have an appointment with HR over at SI.”

“Stark Industries?” Bucky reached for his arm, tugging it to stop his fast clip. His face was incredulous. “You’re the other guy?”

“I’m the technical writer and designer,” Steve informed him archly.

“But you interviewed on Friday, right?” Steve’s brows drew together.

“Oh, my God.”

“I’m gonna be working with Banner. Just finished an internship with the company.”

“I temped in the mail room and won a bid on some ad copy. I freelance, too.” Bucky was impressed, but he didn’t admit it. They kept walking, and Steve felt himself suddenly struggling a little to keep up with Bucky’s longer stride.

Was he _racing_ him?

“My friend Clint gave me the heads-up that they were hiring,” Bucky said smugly. “He put in a word for me.”

“Oh. So you’re his _crony._ ” Steve’s voice was slightly out of breath, but he gave Bucky a shit-eating smile as they both trotted up the endless-seeming tiers of steps to the Stark building. Bucky shot him back a brief dirty look.

“The hell I am!”

The sunlight bounced off the sea of glass windows and steel fittings, almost blinding them both as they made their way toward the revolving door, then practically shoved each other trying to get into the column first. Bucky managed to beat him to the front desk, then stared innocently back at the receptionist, who eyed them both dubiously.

“Sooooo… who are you gentlemen here to see?”

“Human Resources,” Steve told her triumphantly, still out of breath. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Both of us are,” Bucky emphasized. “Pepper Potts?”

“Ah! Good! You must be Steven and James?”

“Just Steve’s fine,” Steve told her. “Steve Rogers.” Bucky didn’t offer his nickname. She gave each of them a “My Name Is” sticker and shoved a clipboard across the counter.

“Name and time-in, please, as well as who you’re here to see. Then, follow me.” The good-looking brunette’s badge identified her as Skye, and Bucky and Steve both eyed her legs appreciatively, revealed easily by a skirt that was just a hair too short for professional attire. She led them behind the security door when she slid her badge over the plate, guiding them through the door when it clicked open.

Pepper was waiting for them at a conference table, laptop open and two yellow manila envelopes beside her. “Glad you both made it! Did you come here together? Have you met before now?”

“Uh…”

“Not… really.”

“Rode the train,” Bucky finished.

“Easy commute,” Steve countered. “Pretty direct shot from where I live.”

“Have a seat!” Pepper told them cheerfully. “Welcome to HR boot camp. Those are your welcome packets, and I need all of that filled out before we take you to badging security for your IDs. You’ll need them to access every unit of the tower, so _don’t_ lose them. Guard your badge with your life. You get one freebie. Once it gets lost or destroyed, the next one is on you.” Steve shuddered. He was already pinching pennies – even saving them for another Coinstar run in a pickle jar above his stove – until he started getting a regular check. The thought of frittering away money on a lost badge or being locked out of his work area made him a little ill.

Pepper ran them through a whirlwind of paperwork. W-nines. Insurance enrollment forms. Life insurance forms. Four-oh-one-kay contributions and stock selections. Fingerprint clearance. Compliance agreement. Non-compete agreements. Payroll auto-deposit forms, which made Bucky practically wriggle in his seat with excitement. Steve did the payroll deduction for the Stark Foundation scholarship program to “give a little something back.” Bucky signed up for the workplace Lotto pool, figuring two dollars a week wouldn’t kill him, and he knew Stark was a gambling man.

They were signing, reading, and signing some more for a half an hour. The process would have gone _so_ much faster if “Just Steve” wasn’t asking a crap ton of questions about the health insurance.

“So, you don’t have to meet the deductible before you cover a hospital stay?”

“Nope. It’s a flat copay per admission,” Pepper assured him. “Why? Planning to get in an accident so soon? You just started!” Steve flushed.

“Just asking…” Bucky raised his brow, but Steve avoided his glance.

“Okay. Badges. Pictures.” They went to the badging booth, where a scarily large guard named Luke eyed them levelly.

“Line up in front of the blue screen. Look up at the red dot and smile pretty.” Bucky’s smile was aiming for “pretty mugshot.” Steve tried and failed not to blink.

Pepper mercifully gave him a do-over.

*

The first two weeks were daunting, grueling, and put both of them through their paces.

Bucky was all about tech. He ate, slept, breathed and spouted the product line. He knew model numbers, serial numbers, version numbers and specs for every design Tony had. He began to trade his business blazers for lab coats and goggles and spent every waking, working minute with Bruce in Research and Development. He was a natural.

Steve was a desk jockey, pausing from his work only to heat up a can of organic soup or to microwave-steam a pouch of brown rice when hunger made his stomach start speaking to him in Sanskrit. He kept his email inbox cleaned out, desk inbox emptied regularly, and he took minutes at meetings religiously, until Pepper reminded him that he didn’t have to do that. Steve was a grammar Nazi and policed every scrap of copy that left the graphics department for typos, reminding all of the interns – giving them the same speech that used to haunt him in his sleep when _he_ was an intern – that “you have to edit your copy like you’re the only person who’s going to lay eyes on it. It has to be _perfect._ ”

They would have gleefully, wholeheartedly despised him if it wasn’t for Bucky. Bucky was an absolute troll. He pranked Steve endlessly, emptying his hole-punch confetti into Steve’s manila folders so he ended up with a “paper party” exploding all over his lap as soon as he went to read his product specs; switching out Steve’s powdered coffee creamer for plain salt; mugging behind him and imitating him silently from a couple of feet behind him whenever he spoke to Upper Management about the deadlines for the product spots or the quotes he received from the print agency. Bucky made Steve wildly entertaining, without Steve meaning to be.

Yet Steve was unflappable. Bucky heard him hiss a curse under his breath from over the cubicle wall when he changed his screensaver to a photomanip of Steve’s badge ID photo – the _original_ one, with him blinking – superimposing his face over the body of Taylor Swift, pageboy hairdo and all.

“I hope this little present you made me and put so much time into means you finished reviewing the product descriptions I emailed you yesterday,” Steve sang pleasantly. Bucky’s silent snickers ceased, eyes widening. “I told Tony I figured you’d have them back to me by noon?”

Shit. _Shit, shit, shit._ Steve allowed himself a smirk – just the barest twist of his pink lips – as he listened to Bucky scrambling to his computer, mouse clicking quickly as he went to open the attachments.

*

The funniest thing was, Steve didn’t dislike Bucky. And Bucky didn’t dislike Steve. 

They just got on each other’s nerves, like a match striking the side of the box. Where Bucky was confident – sometimes _too_ confident, with a habit of jumping the gun before considering all of his input from his team – Steve tended to doubt himself when he had to make presentations. Bucky developed a bad habit of speaking over him during meetings when they were giving Tony and Pepper status updates of projects they collaborated on. Bucky often shot him squinty, wintry little smiles. Steve could often be heard and seen pantomiming Bucky and making faces coming out of conference rooms, and his cubicle wall held more than one scribble of Bucky caricatures, emphasizing his broad mouth and the crinkles around his eyes. (Not that Steve noticed that kinda thing, or anything. Not really.)

They still raced each other to the elevator. God help anyone who was standing just inside the car when it dinged.

*

“So. We’re headed to our sister office up in Boston for three days,” Tony announced cheerfully during their afternoon huddle. “Pepper’s booked the flights already. Dress warm, boys and girls. You’ll have itineraries in your inboxes when we adjourn. I’m going to be meeting with the chief of operations at that branch and touring the facility to make sure everything’s ship-shape across the board.”

“We’ve been hearing rumors that our processes aren’t consistent over there. That’s a no-no,” Pepper told them grimly. 

“That’s mutiny,” Tony interjected, shaking his head and drawing his fingers across his neck. “BIG no-no.”

“Every product, every spec, every version, every model has to follow the same process and meet the same benchmark for quality,” Pepper continued.

“Which is why Miss Potts is going to give them hell. I’m just going to ask the occasional question, nod my head, and look important. Not to mention remind them who writes their paychecks.”

“I had your suit picked up from the dry cleaners,” she murmured to him under her breath. Tony brightened.

“You’re an angel,” he muttered back. “Barnes. Rogers. I want both of you to turn in your expense reports by noon on Monday when we’re back in the office.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark,” Steve assured him.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Bucky drawled, nodding and winking with a saucy click of his teeth.

“Do they have a vegan meal option on the flight?” Steve wondered.

“Calling it edible would be too kind. I included a list of all the restaurants in the airport food court that cater to restricted diets, Steve. Knock yourself out.” Steve beamed at Pepper while gave the little blond thorn in his side his best _are you friggin’ kidding me?_ look. Steve felt his stare and met his face head-on. 

“What?” he mouthed impatiently. 

“Couldn’t pull a needle out of your ass with a tractor, Rogers, swear to God.”

*

The morning of their flight wasn’t much different from the one when they met. This time, though, Bucky stood at the front of the line at Starbucks, flirting shamelessly with Darcy while she scribbled his name on the clear plastic cup for his white frap, extra whip. 

“I hate flying,” she complained to him. “ I always end up stuck next to a woman with a screaming baby or a guy who ate eggs for lunch.”

“It’s not that far,” Bucky told her easily. “Could’ve almost taken the train. But why argue with first class?”

“Wanna move it along up there?” a familiar voice loudly suggested. “Or are you planning to make the whole 747 wait til you’ve decided which cake pop has the most sprinkles? Oh, and ma’am? Don’t give this jerk your number. He’ll never call you.”

“Shut it!” Bucky hissed, whirling on Steve with wide eyes. 

“His exes leave him angry messages on his phone. Everyone in the office listens to them on speaker.” Darcy made a low “aaaaaahhhh” of discovery, giving Bucky the side-eye.

“I don’t put them on speaker,” Bucky argued, giving Darcy a winning smile, but she wasn’t buying it.

“Frap will be up in a sec, Buck,” she informed him, slapping his empty cup on the back counter for the barista as though it burned her fingers. Steve practically ignored him while he placed his order, and to Bucky’s amusement, Darcy scribbled “Just Steve” on his tall Americano cup. So the nickname had stuck.

Steve breezed past Bucky once his drink was ready, because _of course_ it was finished before Bucky’s white mocha frap, leaving him fuming. Steve whistled on his way out of the shop dragging his wheeled, brown tweed suitcase behind him, trenchcoat draped over his arm.

“Might be a good idea to keep that speaker turned off from now on, Mr. Wonderful,” Darcy suggested. “Have a safe trip. Don’t run into any exes… I mean, _turbulence._ ” Darcy’s smirk was positively feral. Bucky squinted a little smile, saluted her with his frap, and beat feet.

*

Bucky caught up to Steve eventually on the metro deck, earbuds plugged in and licking the stray caramel drizzle off the domed lid of his cup as they waited for their ride to the airport. Steve was dressed in his full suit, Bucky noticed with annoyance. Bucky went with a lightweight sweater over his dress shirt but skipped the tie, and he wore Dockers instead of his wool slacks. Bucky didn’t feel like having the end of his jacket rucked up under his ass every time he sat down in his seat during the flight.

Steve was reading a Kindle book from his tablet as he waited. “I took you for a book purist,” Bucky told him, calling to him from over the noise of the rails.

“What?”

“One of those nerds who only buys books in print.”

“Most of the time, I am,” he admitted. “But e-books are cheaper. The bookstores in the airport shops charge a grip.”

“No shit.” Bucky had his own issue of Maxim tucked into his carry-on bag for that reason. “What’re you reading, Twilight?”

“Jerk,” Steve muttered. “Nah. Just some Tom Clancy. Makes the time go a little faster.”

“It’s not that long of a flight,” Bucky reminded him.

“I don’t fly well,” Steve admitted. “I need the distraction.”

“What row are you in?”

“Four-B.” Bucky rummaged in his messenger back for his printout, then chuckled.

“Four-C. Nice.” Steve groaned, then snickered, too.

“Guess that means I can’t climb over you five times to go to the john, then, Window Seat.”

“Awwww. And you were looking forward to it so much.” They watched the metro pull in and eased their way past the people pouring out of it, like salmon swimming upstream. Bucky managed to grab a seat until he noticed an enormously pregnant woman trying to wrangle her toddler in an umbrella stroller. He gestured to her to take that seat instead and ended up next to Steve, sharing a pole. The car once again sardined them in, and Steve was so close to Bucky he could smell his aftershave. The car lurched into motion, and Bucky instinctively reached for Steve to steady him, hand gripping his skinny upper arm.

“I’m fine,” Steve assured him. Bucky released him and stared out the window at the signs and lights whizzing past the doors.

“I know,” he shrugged.

*

Because the universe wasn’t finished with Bucky yet, Pepper had booked them the same hotel room. Bucky caught up to Clint in the hall, where he was filling up an ice bucket. Bucky bought himself a Snickers bar and a Sprite, grousing as he dug in his pockets for change.

“If Steve makes it back to the office on Monday in one piece, it’s because I was behaving myself,” Bucky told him. “Remember that when you do my peer review assessment.”

“Nah. He’s not bad,” Clint argued.

“He’s back in the room meditating. He lit a frigging scented candle and unpacked his medicine, and it took up the whole bathroom vanity. And I have to eat this out here because _someone_ is allergic to nuts.”

“Thing is, he probably won’t keep you up all night. Guy’s not exactly a party animal.”

No, Bucky mused to himself later that night, but he _snored_ like a three-hundred-pound truck driver.

 

“Does that stuff even work?” Bucky watched Steve pop a fat tablet of Airborne, grimacing as he chewed the fizzy, horrendously sour thing.

“Helps a little if you take it soon enough. I start mainlining it every October.” Steve grabbed one of the fluffy white towels and headed into the bathroom. “I won’t be that long, okay?”

“Knock yourself out. Acquaint yourself with the soap. You’re a little gamey.” Steve gave him a fuck-off look and closed Bucky out, locking the door and turning on the fan. Bucky exhaled a shaky breath, finally able to stem his reaction to seeing Steve in his boxers and undershirt. He had a slim, tight little body, all fair skin, knobby joints and slender limbs, and the cutest little ass Bucky ever saw wrapped in gray cotton. Bucky briefly adjusted himself, cheeks burning.

True to his word, Steve’s shower was short. He emerged wrapped to the waist in one towel and scrabbling a second one through his damp blond hair that hung in slick runnels over his brow. His skin was slightly ruddy and gleaming from the steam, and he hadn’t put his glasses back on yet.

His eyes were so _blue._ His lashes were a thick, shining fringe. “All yours.”

“There anymore dry towels?”

“A couple.” Steve unzipped his suitcase and began setting out fresh underwear and socks for himself, and Bucky realized he was about to drop that towel any minute…

“Right. I’ll just… wash.”

“The public will thank you,” Steve deadpanned as he dropped his towel.

Bucky fled.

Once they were dressed, Steve went through the complicated ritual of unscrewing every pill bottle and shaking out doses onto the counter, putting in eye drops, nose drops, taking two puffs of his inhaler, then slowly gulping down the tablets and capsules two-by-two with long slugs of water in-between. Bucky shook his head.

“How are you still alive?”

“Beats me. Nice to have insurance now, though.”

“How much are your pharmacy copays?” Because Bucky was actually wondering.

“Still as much as a week’s groceries. But now I can afford my maintenance meds and a few incidentals. Like food.” Bucky felt slightly guilty about his Snicker’s bar from the night before when he saw Steve’s epi-pen sticking up out of his toiletry bag. “Let’s see if we can get a cab. Text Clint and let him know we’ll meet them at Faneuil Hall.”

*

The next forty-eight hours were a blur. They went through endless meetings, tours of the facility, audits, contract reviews, interviews with the technical staff and did a review of HR’s staffing records that made Pepper’s head spin. Their nights were long, finding them all flipping through folders while they ate out of takeout boxes. Bucky noticed Steve was flagging a little, bags and dark circles under his eyes. He could have sworn he saw him nod off for a moment. He nudged him, and he jerked to alertness, giving Bucky a bewildered look.

“You were almost drooling.”

“I was resting my eyes. Pass me that spec sheet, will ya?”

Bucky put on his lab coat and put heads together with Research and Development and made them open up every control panel and computer screen. Steve wrangled with the creative team for hours, reviewing every font, graphic, logo, trademark and slogan for consistency and quality, pointing out obsolete materials and crying foul when he found out how much of the old copy was still being distributed at expos and conferences. Steve was absolutely aghast.

They hustled, wined and dined. They researched, scanned and overhauled. They presided over meetings, laid down product changes with an iron fist and pulled heinous amounts of overtime.

By the time Tony and Pepper finally shook hands with the branch’s chief of operations, the toll had already been taken on Steve. Bucky frowned as he watched him waver on his feet. “Hey. Take it easy. Sit down for a minute.”

“Heading back to the hotel room to give it one last sweep,” Steve argued, but his eyes looked like burned-out holes in his head. “Can’t forget any of my meds or my charger cable.”

“I already packed your cable into your suitcase, in the outer pocket,” Bucky informed him. “I’m getting you something to drink.”

“Water’s fine.”

“No, Steve. I’m getting you some juice.” Steve’s voice sounded scratchy and tired, and his face was lined with exhaustion.

“Not grapefruit,” he cautioned. “Messes with my beta blockers.”

“Apple?” Bucky suggested helpfully.

“Apple,” Steve echoed numbly. Bucky fought the urge to gather him close and prop him against him for a nap. Bucky quickly fed some quarters into the fancy vending machine, and moments later pressed the chilled bottle of Very Fine into Steve’s clammy grip. Bucky winced; he didn’t look good at all.

*

Something felt off when Bucky signed in to work on Monday morning. He filled out his time card and began keying in his expense report, finishing off the last of his coffee. He was just hitting send on it when it hit him.

He couldn’t hear Steve. No annoying – soothing, sometimes, Bucky allowed – humming in his rumbly deep voice, no loud sips of his commuter Americano before it cooled, no Pandora playlist that included every song Bucky could remember his mom listening to on the way to the Laundromat every Saturday morning – no one should listen to that much Fleetwood Mac, Steve. Bucky stood and glanced over the cubicle wall. He found Sam logging onto Steve’s PC instead.

“Where’s Rogers?”

“Called in. Told Tony he felt like hell. Stiff breeze would blow him out to sea,” Sam reasoned. “Can’t have much immunity.”

“Steve’s sick?” The color drained from Bucky’s face. “I thought he’d feel better once he got home.” But Steve had been green around the gills and lethargic as they de-planed and hunted for their luggage on the large carousel, and Steve waved to him weakly as they separated on the metro deck, still clutching the depleted bottle of apple juice.

“Whatever it is that he caught’s got him pretty good. Pepper signed him off for three days,” Sam told him. “I’m glad, man. I don’t want what he’s got. Keep that shit at home.”

“Right. Um. So. Where’s Pepper?”

“Bald Eagle Conference Room Two,” Sam told him. Bucky dashed off in search of her. He got the lowdown from her on his schedule for the day, nodded, then asked her to clear the whole thing.

Bucky wasn’t feeling well, evidently. Must’ve been something he ate on the flight…

*

_Knock-knock-knock._ Three short raps. Steve didn’t know anyone in his building who usually knocked like that. He wandered down the hall, still wrapped up in his fleece blanket. He peeked through the peephole and saw Bucky’s distorted image glancing nervously around the hall. He had plastic bags looped around his wrist. “What… Bucky?” He opened the door to him and smothered the urge to squee a little. Bucky looked unreasonably good in the track clothes he’d exchanged his suit for before he went shopping. He peered out at Steve from under his baseball cap and walked inside the apartment before Steve could even invite him.

“I was in the neighborhood. Heard it through the grapevine that you were feeling under the weather.”

“A) you weren’t in the neighborhood,” Steve argued blandly, then coughed into his sleeve, harsh rasping sounds that made his eyes water. Bucky winced. “B) the grapevine is still taking bets on whether I ever asked Sharon out. No one gives a shit about anything else.”

“Did you?” Bucky prodded.

“Nah. Not my type. Too tall.”

“She seems nice, though,” Bucky pointed out.

“So you date her.”

“Not my type, either.”

“She’s about your height.”

“Too much estrogen.”

“Oh. Right. Um. So…What’s in the bag?”

“Half of CVS. I brought you soup. And juice.” Bucky steered himself toward Steve’s kitchen, and Steve automatically felt ashamed of the mess that had begun to pile up while he was down for the count. “Lozenges, the good kind.” He held up a box of Luden’s.

“Good,” Steve praised. Bucky grinned.

“More Airborne. Iron pills.” Steve wrinkled his nose.

“I hate iron pills. They do weird things to my gut.”

“You still need it. Ny-Quil. Day-Quil. Saline nose drops. Puffs Plus.” He shook the box of Kleenex at him before setting it on the table. “Campbells. Apple juice. Gatorade. And a pair of sweater socks.” They were blue striped and trimmed with fringe.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Sweater socks. Apparently, it’s a thing.” Bucky gave Steve a searching look. “You need to go back and lie down.”

“I just got up to pee, and then to answer the door.” Steve’s voice was croaky. “I’m crappy company, Bucky. I can reimburse you for all this stuff-“

“Fuck that shit. No. This is _not_ reimbursable. Go lie down. Put your feet up.” Bucky was annoyed to see that Steve’s feet were bare.

Within minutes, Bucky had him wrangled back onto the couch, remote in hand, a second blanket wrapped around him, the hideous sweater socks on his chilly feet, a bowl of soup steaming on the coffee table, and Bucky propped with his back against the base of the couch. He managed to feed him a dose of Day-Quil and he watched him carefully with the Ludens drops, making sure he didn’t fall asleep with any in mouth. They began to flip channels and watched DVR’ed epis of Ink Master together, one of Steve’s addictions. Steve stared at Bucky with bleary, glassy eyes.

“You didn’t have to do all this, Buck.”

“It’s weird when you’re not in your cube. I can’t concentrate without you muttering under your breath all day.”

“I don’t do that _all_ day,” Steve argued. 

“I can’t promise that Clint and Sam didn’t redecorate your desk while you were gone,” Bucky mentioned.

“Just tell me there won’t be any My Little Pony crap everywhere when I get back.”

“Despite all of my other faults, Stevie, I’m not a liar.”

And it had happened before, when Steve went out of the office for one of his doctor’s checkups for a couple of hours.

“Other faults?” Steve huffed, then coughed, making a sour face as he cleared his throat, drying to knock loose the phlegm. Bucky handed him a handful of tissues, and despite the “ick” factor of the germs, he didn’t mind their fingertips grazing briefly, welcoming opportunities to touch him. “You’re an engineer. You guys are _perfect._ ” Bucky realized he was being disparaging.

“Hey, I’m not that bad!”

“You nagged me about the way that the specs were written three times,” Steve reminded him. “I can only create copy from the information you give me, Buck.”

“I’m sorry… I’m technical. I know how stuff works. I just hate having to write it out for people who don’t.”

“Then let me do my job!” Steve told him, throwing up his hands. He blew his nose loudly, and the tip of it was already bright red.

“Take it easy, sickie.”

“Gads, I wish… I don’t have time for this shit. Stupid deadlines.”

“Don’t worry. I emailed Bobbi. She’s been checking your Outlook calendar today and going through your inbox on your desk. She’s implementing the revisions on the manual today.” Steve blinked.

“Oh. Okay.” They continued to watch the Elimination Tattoo and critiques, shaking their heads at the design choices and questionable line work. 

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hey. What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve been a prick. A total prick to you. You don’t deserve it.”

“Well… it’s not like I’m too delicate to take it, Buck. Thing is, sometimes when people give you a hard time, it’s not necessarily because they _dislike_ you…?” He nudged Bucky’s shoulder with his knee. “Right?”

“You’re anal. You’re goofy and awkward and a kiss-up sometimes. I can’t watch you eat all that hipster organic crap when everyone else is chipping in for pizza and no one can possibly be as polite as you are. You’re a frigging Boy Scout, Rogers.”

“I kinda was an Eagle Scout, but seriously? Wasn’t this supposed to be an apology?”

“I’m getting to that part. I don’t like to admit when someone else is smarter than me. You’re really talented at what you do, and you deserve this job a hell of a lot more than the other three hundred schmucks that applied.”

“Three hundred thirty-one,” Steve reminded him sheepishly. “And I guess I can accept that.” He began coughing again, goopy and wet, and Bucky winced.

“I’m making you some tea.” Bucky hopped up and went into Steve’s tiny kitchen, rummaging through the plastic shopping bag that he’d left on the table.

“And for the record, I don’t order pizza with everybody because I’m lactose intolerant. And I’m allergic to wheat and tomatoes.”

“Wheat?” Bucky accused. “Is that why you aren’t eating your soup, punk???” Steve stared down at the floppy egg noodles and shrugged, cringing at Bucky’s tone.

“Sorry.”

“I could have gotten you plain vegetable,” Bucky muttered. “Sheesh…”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Steve reminded him. He listened to Bucky going through his cabinets. “Cups are in the one next to the fridge.”

“Got it. Want sugar?”

“I have some honey in the cupboard, too. I don’t use table sugar.”

“That’s why you’re so damned skinny, Rogers.”

“It helps to be. I’m a mess, Bucky.”

“Do you get sick a lot, Steve?”

“Often enough that I just remember what it feels like to be well right before the symptoms start up again. I’m anemic, I’ve got hypertension and an ulcer, and I’ve been asthmatic since I was four. I’ve got a list of allergies that reads like an encyclopedia. “

“An ulcer?” Bucky snapped as he nuked the mug of hot water to brew the tea. “Seriously? And you’re working for _Tony Stark?_ ”

“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity,” Steve told him frankly. “I’m up to my neck in bills. Freelance work wasn’t cutting it, and I’m still paying for student loans and the big loan I took out to bury my mom.” Bucky was just rounding the corner and stirring his tea, but the clinking of the spoon stopped as he approached.

“Steve… wow. I’m so sorry. God, that sucks. I didn’t know…”

“I didn’t broadcast it. I didn’t’ really have anyone to celebrate with when I got the job.” Bucky thought back to the drinks he’d had with Clint, the calls he’d made to his parents and his sister Becca when he first got hired, and he kinda felt like a heel. “But it was nice to fill my refrigerator and my medicine cabinet without worrying if I could make rent.” Bucky’s eyes flitted around Steve’s living room as he sat back down on the floor, propped against the couch again. The furnishings were spare and worn, and his television was a modest twenty-three inches. There was a ficus tree in the corner of the room and a small shelf of DVDs and video games – X-Box, Bucky noticed appreciatively, so at least he treated himself to _something_ \- and everything was impeccably clean. Allergies, Bucky reminded himself, and a weak immune system.

Steve spoke again, stirring Bucky from his reverie. “You didn’t have to take time off of work for this, Bucky.”

“Maybe I just wanted to play hooky. Drink your tea.” Steve sipped the Echinacea-infused brew and huddled beneath the blankets, pondering the back of Bucky’s neck.

When he dozed off and woke up in a groggy daze three hours later, it was to the smell of fresh vegetable soup.


End file.
